Harriet, for her part, is troubled and distracted twice over. First, there is her impending confrontation with Marion. Her indignation with her old college acquaintance—she finds the epithet friend sticks in her craw at this juncture—bubbles periodically to the surface: how could she? They had been the closest of friends at university—certainly in their final year—even if circumstances and distance had subsequently conspired to keep them apart, their friendship dwindling over the years of marriage and careers to the exchange of occasional letters and latterly merely Christmas cards. Until now she had always nursed a vague regret at letting what had been a heady and intense closeness wither, but her overriding feeling at this moment is fury at Marion’s behaviour; the betrayal cuts her deeply. She has tried to rationalise Marion’s actions: her youth, her undoubted terror at her predicament, perhaps panic at the thought of being shamed as girls still were in those days, no matter how much the papers trumpeted the new freedoms offered by the pill and the rise of feminism. Some sister Marion had proved to be!
Her second and more recent worry she hugs close to herself, sick with dread at both its import and the urgency of finding the best way to reveal it. Once more she tries to distract herself with her Kindle, but the words dance meaninglessly in front of her eyes, the only consolation being that she is spared the need to make conversation with either of her travelling companions.
There is another indecipherable announcement. People freeze, shushing offspring as they try to make out the words, paper cups halfway to mouths, hope flowering as it inevitably does that they misheard last time, that it is some other flight that is delayed or cancelled, that somehow, miraculously, the technical fault has been righted, the missing cabin crew have materialised and the tiny window in the crowded sky that allows one plane from thousands to depart or land has remained open just long enough—
‘That’s us they’re calling, I think,’ says Lionel in a half-whisper, as though trying not to alert the rest of the passengers bound for England. ‘I’m sure she said Gatwick.’ He cranes around to peer at the departures board, which is just too far away to allow him to make out which plane is now boarding. ‘Shall we make a move?’
Reluctant to relinquish their seats in case he is mistaken, Hester hesitates. No point rushing anyway; in accordance with her usual thrift, she had refused to countenance paying for priority boarding. The public address system booms suddenly with another announcement, clearly mentioning their flight number and destination this time.
She nudges Harriet. ‘Looks like we’re in luck. Let’s make a move. Lionel?’
They gather their belongings while a fair number of those standing disconsolately around them eye up their chances of securing their vacated seats and begin edging their way towards the trio as surreptitiously as they can.
By the time they reach the back of the queue, Harriet has her nose buried in her Kindle once more; either she has downloaded an exceptionally engrossing novel or she is avoiding conversation. Hester suspects the latter.
As they shuffle painfully slowly towards the departure gate, she is once more aware of an anxious Lionel at her shoulder, desperate to conduct a sotto voce conversation as the chances of their promised tête-à-tête diminish.
‘Hester, my dear, I was hoping we might—’
‘Let me just find my passport—’
‘It’s there, on top of your purse.’
‘So it is! Couldn’t see it for looking.’
‘Hester . . . I know this isn’t quite the time—’
Hester drops her boarding pass. Lionel scrambles to recover it.
‘All fingers and thumbs today,’ she says with a feeble laugh.
‘Yes. Look, we need to talk.’ He flicks a glance at Harriet, apparently oblivious, who may be distracted but whose hearing is acute. He raises his eyebrows. Mouths, ‘About . . . you know . . .’
Hester nods. Jerks her head towards her sister. Mouths back, ‘Sorry.’ She shakes her head regretfully as though at a loss as to how to proceed.
Lionel, exasperated, takes control. Clearing his throat, he says, ‘Harriet, forgive me.’
She looks up, around, as though surprised at her surroundings, regards him quizzically.
‘Harriet, would you mind awfully if we swapped seats? So I can sit next to Hester on the flight?’
‘Oh!’ says Hester, confounded by this sudden offensive.
‘Oh . . .’ says Harriet with a faintly bewildered air, ‘I suppose . . .’
‘Jolly good,’ says Lionel with unusual decisiveness, his face set with a firmness Hester has never witnessed before. ‘That’s most kind of you. We both appreciate it. Don’t we, Hester?’
And Hester, cornered, has no option but to agree that they do.
CHAPTER 49
Chemistry had been—well, he doesn’t want to sound overly cocky, but frankly it had been a piece of piss. It was like he was channelling Ralph or something. If he’d written the paper himself, he couldn’t have come up with a more favourable choice of questions. Genius, all that advice to think about practical application: it all made sense. Of course, once it was over and the candidates slouched, round-shouldered, claw-handed, out of the examination hall, he’d bitched with the rest of them and moaned for England about the unfairness of the examiners and what a shit paper it had been, but he was doing cartwheels inside and couldn’t wait to text his mentor. In fact, he’d do it right now . . .
‘Awright?’ Jez has crept up on him out of nowhere, Ben having managed to avoid him until now, sitting as far away as possible in the exam.
‘Fuck off, Nairstrom.’ Ben’s thumbs dance over the phone. He turns his back on Jez to prevent him seeing the screen.
‘You never answered my texts.’
Is that a tiny note of self-pity in Jez’s voice?
‘Wonder why that was, dickhead.’
‘D’you read them even?’
Yes, that is most definitely a pleading tone he can hear.
‘No. Why would I wanna read shit from a shitty shitface whose brain-dead brother trashes my aunts’ place?’
‘I said I was sorry!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Well, sorry is fuck-all good to me, when the house has been, like, totally wrecked and I have to work all weekend when I should be revising. Still, one good thing: I really know who my mates are now.’
‘I’d’ve helped. Only had to ask.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Ben starts to move away.
Jez follows him. ‘That black tart gave Hedge’s goolies a right kicking. Man, has he got his pants in a wad.’
‘Good. Except she’s not a tart and she happens to be Louisa’s sister.’
‘No way! That is one mean—’
Ben swings round. ‘Don’t!’
‘What?’ Jez looks genuinely bewildered.
‘Whatever you were going to say: just don’t. I’m warning you. Now piss off.’ And with that Ben strides away without a backward glance.
‘Wanker!’ calls Jez but without much conviction. He waits for Ben to turn back. Ben doesn’t.
Ben looks around for Nats at the school bus stop but without success. It’s only as the bus pulls into Pellington that he sees her whizz past on her bike. Of course. She cycles everywhere; that’s why she’s so fit. He dodges this way and that through the disembarking passengers with hurried apologies, yelling, ‘Oi, Nats, wait!’ and is gratified when she slows to a halt and looks back. For a moment he thinks he sees a faint smile on her lips. He jogs to catch up with her as she climbs off the saddle and starts to wheel her bike towards the lane.
‘Wotcha,’ he says. Even in school uniform she looks neat, braids caught in a band at the nape of her neck.
‘Well?’
He knows she means the exam.
‘Yeah. Good.’
‘Serious?’
‘Pretty fan-fucking-tastic in fact.’
This time a definite smile. ‘Cool. So old Ralphie came up with the goods?’
&n
bsp; ‘And some.’
They walk on for a few moments in comfortable silence, until Nats breaks it. ‘Any word from Finbar?’
‘Nah. Still, no mobile so . . .’
‘Fingers crossed, yeah? You nervous? About the house?’
‘You kidding? I’m shitting myself. They may be old but they’re not batty. Or blind.’
Nats gives a theatrical groan.
That reminds him. ‘This play you’re in. What is it?’
‘A Doll’s House.’
He nods; he hasn’t a clue. Nats regards him pityingly. ‘Ibsen. About a woman who breaks out of a conventional marriage. Leaves her children. Very shocking.’
‘Yeah?’ Most of his friends’ parents are divorced.
‘At the time, dolt. Late nineteenth century. Early stirrings of feminism, Miss Rogers says.’
This doesn’t surprise Ben; most of the boys have the drama teacher pegged as a weirdo, possibly lesbian. He thinks it wise not to divulge this to Nats.
‘Got a big part, have you?’
Nats grins. ‘Only the lead. Nora.’ When Ben doesn’t respond she says with exasperation, ‘It’s a big deal. I’m playing a Scandinavian, Ben! Guess what colour they generally were. And are.’
‘Oh, right,’ says Ben, flummoxed. What’s she getting so wound up about?
‘Colour-blind casting, Miss Rogers calls it. Can’t believe my luck, having a teacher like her, giving me such an opportunity.’ She looks as though she might be settling into a lengthy lecture when they round the final bend in the lane to find Daria anxiously peering out of The Laurels’ sitting room window. She dashes out on to the path to meet them, brow furrowed.
‘Quick! Quick!’
Nats and Ben start running.
‘I thought there was a fire,’ grumbles Ben, having assured himself The Laurels is still intact.
‘Idiot boy!’ cries Daria. ‘Not fire. Smell!’
Nats sniffs again, screws up her nose. ‘It’s pretty gross, isn’t it?’
‘Is terrible!’ wails Daria, moving a startled Milo out of reach of the rubbish bin. ‘Worse than Finbar! I send Artem out to buy . . .’ She waves her hand around.
‘Air fresheners?’
‘Tak. But he is saying, no, they are horrible. They will know. But this; this is . . .’ She flaps her hand in front of her nose. ‘And then he leaves for airport. I try boiling up borscht but still this terrible smell.’
She’s right: the pungent, oily odour of varnish has permeated the entire house. Ben and Nats look at one another; the same thought strikes them simultaneously.
‘Curry.’
‘Look, they love curry,’ insists Ben as Daria’s face darkens at the perceived slight to her own cooking. ‘We can say we thought you’d be, like, fed up with Italian food, pasta and that, so we’ve done you an international meal, Polish and Indian.’
‘Belarusian,’ corrects Daria sternly.
‘Okay, Belarusian, whatevs. I’ll nip out to the village shop, see what I can find.’
‘Why don’t I go?’ says Nats. ‘On the bike. Much quicker. You start grinding spices or whatever. Do the onions and that.’ She extracts a little notebook from her backpack. ‘What am I buying?’
Ben rattles off a list of ingredients that she obediently writes down. He dashes to the larder, calling over his shoulder, ‘Hang on.’ He emerges with a bag of sugar. ‘Great. I’ll do crème caramel too with caramelised orange peel. So one orange too, firm as possible.’ She adds that to the list.
‘Do we really need a pudding?’
‘For Aunt Harriet? You bet. Plus, burnt sugar is a really strong smell. So’s sugared orange peel. That plus the curry—’
‘Okay,’ says Nats, convinced. ‘I’m off.’
‘Oh God,’ says Ben. ‘Money. I haven’t got—’
‘Sorted.’ She disappears.
Ben sets to with pestle and mortar, preparing the curry paste, then chops his onions. In no time at all the kitchen is filled with the tantalising aroma of exotic spices frying in oil. ‘Open the door into the hall, Daria, will you?’
The smell starts to creep through the house, overlaying the varnish. When Nats returns twenty or so minutes later, laden with the groceries, she bounds in with a cry of triumph. ‘Result! Smells like an Indian takeaway now. Here you go.’
Daria looks up at the kitchen clock anxiously. ‘It will be ready? Before they are returning?’
‘All good,’ says Ben, swiftly slipping the chicken breasts into the bubbling sauce. ‘Bish bosh, get this lot going and then leave it to simmer while I finish off the pud.’
Nats, in the throes of making tea, says, ‘Just wish we knew where Finbar was. Did he say which train he was catching?’
‘The ten o’clock,’ says a welcome voice from the garden door. ‘What delicious bouquet assails my senses? Do I detect a hint of garam masala?’
‘Finbar!’ cries Daria delightedly, only just stopping herself in time from hugging the dishevelled old man, cloaked once more in his habitual aroma. Somehow he has contrived in a few short days to undo all the improvements in his emanations that her crafty washing of his jacket had achieved.
Ben reflects that all they needed to have done was to install Finbar in the hall on the aunts’ return to entirely mask the smell of varnish. Nevertheless, he’s as pleased as the two girls to see the old boy safely returned and even more pleased to see him clutching a large and extremely well-wrapped parcel. He turns down the heat under the curry and continues with his preparations, listening in as Finbar, already in full flow, gently lowers his load onto the kitchen table.
‘. . . extraordinary,’ the old man is saying as his grimy fingernails start picking at the string. ‘I had an entire block of four seats to myself. All the way to Edinburgh! I think perhaps there was something wrong with the other seats because no sooner had people sat down than they moved elsewhere. Still, I had plenty of legroom.’
The string is proving surprisingly resistant to his efforts. Ben hands Daria the kitchen scissors.
‘Anyway, all went remarkably smoothly yesterday. I must say, these modern trains are a revelation! We arrived exactly on time, I alighted and set off for my destination. My new friend in the New Town—what a pleasing synergy that description has!—had given me the most precise directions, which I followed slavishly without mishap.’
Ben pops the bain-marie containing the crème caramel in the oven and joins them at the table, where Daria has started to unpeel layer upon layer of bubble wrap, until a bored Milo seizes a length of string dangling over the edge and almost pulls the precious parcel onto the floor.
Daria snatches up the figurine, Nats snatches up the foiled and frustrated baby, and with Finbar not even pausing in his narrative, they all move into the carpeted sitting room, where Daria kneels at the coffee table to continue her task in relatively greater security.
‘I will confess to a little weakness on my part, however, during my Scottish sojourn. One reads the most salacious things about our northern cousins and I must admit I had always believed the fried Mars Bar to be an urban myth. Imagine my wonderment, then, on walking down Broughton Street in the gloaming to see a fish-and-chip shop advertising said delicacy. I felt it my bounden duty to try one and I can report that they are astonishingly tasty, especially if one has a sweet tooth. A very sweet tooth.
‘But I digress. I reached my destination, introduced myself to the vendor and found all to be in order, although I will own to a little disappointment that he invited me no further than the hall. Nevertheless, our transaction was conducted with admirable celerity and civility and within five minutes I found myself possessed of the coveted prize and on my way back to Waverley Station. Now, it seemed to me a heinous oversight to visit Auld Reekie and not pay my respects to Sir Walter and his faithful hound Maida and, there being no further trains that night, I thought what could be a more delightful extension to my little adventure than to bed down at the feet of the great man in Princes Street Gardens?’
; Daria has finally unveiled the shepherdess to assorted sighs of delight and relief.
‘Ah, there she is! Home at last! Daria, my dear, whatever is the matter?’
For Daria is staring horror-struck at the figurine, standing so winsomely on the coffee table with her trademark smirk.
‘What is it?’ says Ben, looking from Daria to the shepherdess and back again. The figure looks just like the one that he remembers from many a visit to the aunts.
‘Look . . .’ she whispers, pointing. ‘Look at the shoes.’
They all look. Two neat pumps with china bows.
‘Two bows.’ She fashions their shape in the air.
‘So?’ says Nats.
‘Hester and Harriet, their lady, she has lost a bow. Broken. Not by me,’ Daria adds swiftly.
‘Shit,’ says Ben, his elation evaporating.
Finbar steps back in a swirl of BO. ‘We’ll simply have to knock one off.’
‘No!’ gasps Daria.
‘We might break the whole shoe off, the whole foot,’ says Nats. ‘The entire thing might shatter.’
All four of them chip in with suggestions involving increasing degrees of risk.
Ben checks his phone. ‘They’ll be here in a minute. We have to do something!’
Milo, unregarded at the feet of the agitated adults, considers the pretty lady abandoned on the coffee table. The shepherdess, all seven inches of eye-wateringly expensive bone china, represents to Milo not a valuable collector’s item but an intriguing new toy, something unfamiliar to explore with his mouth or test for its percussive qualities. One eager hand strains towards her, but the alluring prize is just out of reach. He settles back on his padded bottom, momentarily thwarted.
The shepherdess simpers; Milo lusts, apparently impotent. He reaches up to find the edge of the coffee table with two chubby hands, grips tightly, steadies his vast nappy-swathed bottom, and heaves; inch by painfully slow inch, he hauls himself upright. Were the shepherdess not calling her siren song, he might well have crowed his triumph and attracted attention, but all his thoughts are focused on the lovely shepherdess, smiling at him so coyly, so invitingly. He shuffles two precarious steps and, teetering alarmingly, lets go of the coffee table with his right hand and reaches out to grab the figurine’s fragile neck. And before the horrified and belatedly alerted adults can intervene, he stumbles, sending the shepherdess skittering across the table to tumble over the opposite edge.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 31